


There Will Be Time

by wigglebox



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Beaches, Crimes & Criminals, Guns, Gunshot Wounds, Love Confessions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-13
Updated: 2018-07-13
Packaged: 2019-06-09 14:19:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15269307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wigglebox/pseuds/wigglebox
Summary: Dean Winchester and Castiel lived by the belief that rules should be broken. So why can't they break their own?





	There Will Be Time

**ONE**

Dean Winchester fell in love on July 11th as the sound of waves lulled him to sleep.

His home, for the next week at least, sat on a small cliff overlooking Ogunquit Beach in Maine. He fell in love with New England beaches with their cool breeze and rugged aesthetic, a far cry from his usual Santa Monica coastline.

High tide swept into Ogunquit overnight, blanketing the wide expanse of beach. Dean listened as the waves grew closer, louder. They echoed in the room with a calming pattern as the ceiling fan spun with ease over his head. The humidity had ebbed overnight, and the air conditioning switched off. Dean felt like the room was in the ocean.

But he didn’t want to sleep. Not yet. He turned over and watched the person snoozing next to him.

Their first night in Ogunquit resulted in little productivity. Their suitcases waited for them on the other bed, still fully packed. Their owners, who endured a five-hour drive to the beach town, occupied themselves with other tasks until the moon hung high and all other tourists were on their way to dreamland.

The two of them had only a little over a week here. A pitiful amount of time for a place so beautiful. From the moment Dean stepped out of the car and took in the salty Atlantic air, he realized he drank some magic potion that beckoned him to stay forever. That siren’s song sang to him as they did a small amount of exploring close to their beachside hotel. The voice grew louder with every step he took. Its confidence took Dean by little surprise. He figured this would happen. It had been happening more and more frequently each time he and his bed mate met.

Dean had a home in California. It had no special qualities, and in fact, to any outsider, probably looked like the dude who lived there was down on his luck. The small Santa Clarita cottage, swathed in stucco, had bars on the windows and no grass in the front or back of the house. The previous owners destroyed any nature they could with concrete. His neighbors only made things more interesting. To Dean’s right, a family of five with nothing to their name other than good spirits and a flair for great parties. On his left, an old widower who seemed to like to plunge his grief into the open receptacle of a hooker three nights out of the week.

His small kitchen made for some sad meals, but good lighting kept it the brightest, happiest place in the home. Dean could afford a bigger place, a better neighborhood easy, but the constant reminder to remain humble squashed those aspirations. Men in his line of business needed to stay low to the ground lest they be detected by pigs or the feeb.

But now, laying in a hotel bed with the fan, the waves, and the man’s gentle snoring next to him, Dean felt like he could have the world if he wanted here in Ogunquit. He didn’t feel paranoid someone would kick in the door and haul him off to the electric chair. He didn’t look in panic at the rear-view mirror on the highway every five minutes.

For the first time in his life, Dean felt like he had time.

Small alarms rang in the depths of his mind, alerting him that he may have fallen too fast into a rhythm with his bed partner. That the time with him wasn’t spent at arms length, but pressed too often together with hands gripping, and breaths released at shaky moments.

All pretty amazing considering before they met, Dean hated the man on principle. 

\---

Both of their names graced the headline of local papers and news broadcasts a couple dozen times. Sometimes, if a ‘hunt’ went well, the calm nature of Lester Holt would chime in with a small blurb on what horror Mr. L. A. and Mr. Liberty were up to now.

Dean hadn’t asked for the ridiculous name and he assumed Mr. Liberty hadn’t asked for his either.

Mr. Liberty popped up in national media after targeting a jewelers in Queens. Not only did he wind up stealing over two million in merchandise on his own, the NYPD determined he took out one of the top dogs of a powerful Russian mob family. Along with the precious gems, heads sat in freezers, guns and drugs were tucked away in the basement of the shop, and a hit list of prosecutors. Liberty had cut off the head of the snake.

Dean never cared for the news, having create some of their stories. It became a surreal experience whenever he saw his masked mug in a gritty camera picture. Like some alien shape that called itself Dean decided to do the Bad Things, and Dean almost wanted to cry IMPOSTER!

He also hated being blamed for petty crimes that were pinned on him by the idiots at the anchor desk. _Detectives are asking if this is another Mr. L.A. sighting –_ No. It never was. Dean didn’t go on sprees, another rule for himself set upon him by his father. The professionals knew better than to take the fleet of Porsches from outside Mr. Hollywood Producer’s mansion, and then go straight to a bank and pull off an unplanned heist. That’s how you got a one-way ticket to the pokey. Dean prided himself on very little, but he did know how to be better than a common street thug.

One Thursday, after a successful job, Dean caught a Nightly News broadcast at the dive bar.

They ran their second story on Mr. Liberty. The lead gave an update on their previous story, where Liberty had shot and killed three people from an armored van, then stole nearly $700,000. Again, alone.

Police had categorized it as an act of murder, until the feeb once again stepped in and confirmed that the men were overseas ISIS contacts. They had been shoveling money into accounts that fed the terrorist organizations.

The video then showed a small, grainy image of Liberty in his Ronald Reagan mask with an AR-15 gun pointed at the back of their heads. No bump stock. None was needed.

The news cut the video off right before shots fired but Dean still had time to admire the man’s form, the ease at which he held the three terrorists alone. The confidence level radiated from the screen, and jump started a bolt of jealousy in Dean. He’s taken lives before, rare, but it happened. But he never pulled the job off in broad daylight and in front of security cameras, no less.

That night, Dean googled the son of a bitch.

Dedicated crime blogs had a lot to say about the two of them. Conspiracy theories, plotting where they might hit next, and which one they’d rather fuck. Dean had been winning that one since these people weren’t fans of Ronald Reagan.

The theory that popped up the most had Dean and Liberty working together in some way, coordinating their efforts. Another theory, less popular, claimed Dean and Liberty knew each other. The public only knew some of the things Dean did, so to them it seemed plausible. However, Dean knew the night that Liberty stormed the back office of a bank and took out two CEOs, Dean had stolen a fleet of range rovers and a mink coat from the Parasmars in Malibu, a small job for him. Police hadn’t pinned him to that one yet.

Another blog had statistic comparisons. Dean saw himself ranked lower than Liberty, but higher than other serial criminals in the country. Liberty had more points in ‘justice served’ but Dean had more in the money count.

He tried to muster up feeling accomplished with that. He _did_ target shitty people, and took their toys away from them. But the crime critiques wanted to compare Liberty to goddamn Batman.

Dean hated him.

Dean’s attacks on targets became more brazen

He’d heard about a certain pedophile at his dive bar. Jack Sylvester (the molester) liked little boys in a Kevin Spacey way, and a man at the bar cried about it over his beer. His son had to go to therapy now like a goddamn queer. Sylvester the Molester’s name got put on Dean’s new list.

Later in the week, Dean stopped by a junkyard to meet his scrap metal buyer. The guy had his son in his arms, calming him down with soothing coos and hugging him close. One look at Dean, and the man shook his head. Dean gave them their privacy, learning later that the kid had been approached by Sylvester.

The named moved to the top of the list.

Two days later, Sylvester’s corpse was found in Griffith Park with two gunshot wounds in his head and a pool of congealed blood attracting the nearby coyotes. Dean purposefully let himself be seen on the cameras with his bear mask.

The national spotlight turned back to him, greeting him like an old friend.

\---

Dean watched the man who many knew as Mr. Liberty sleep. His eyes, now adjusted to the dark, drank in the sight as if it would vanish at the first sign of daylight.

Storybook fantasies made it simple to fall in love, stumble into a dream home by the coast, and live happily ever after. The reality of Dean and his fellow hardened criminal ever achieving that goal popped any bubble of hope in Dean’s heart.

But

\- it didn’t hurt to dream.

As consciousness began to slip away, Dean let the words on the tip of his tongue fly free into the night against the skin of Mr. Liberty. Sleep took him in the next breath.

 

**TWO**

Morning light crept across the room as the sea fog lifted. The man next to Dean hadn’t slept well, not since Dean opened his mouth. Instead, he lay rigid as a board in the same position for hours.

Cas wasn’t an idiot. The inevitable end game to any relationship was marriage or break up. Even if the relationship was only a game of hooking up every month, it often saw the same option.

Most of his life, Cas avoided relationships of any caliber. He had a couple one night stands here and there, but put his foot down on a repeat performance. He didn’t have the time for love, and he certainly didn’t have time for heartbreak. The thing with Dean got away from him - he kept admitting that to himself, and it sucked. The moments it didn’t suck were beautiful, but then reality crashed back down. Who they were, what they did, and their history all piled up into a big snowball, threatening to crush body and soul.

Cas felt Dean’s words against the back of his neck. A dull ringing started in his ears as his brain processed the confession. At first, Cas urged it to be a dream. A dream he could easily push under the rug and dissect later. But the pressure of Dean’s arm around him and the soft snore Cas soon heard shattered that dreamscape. The situation turned into something they couldn’t ignore any more, like they had been doing for several months.

Anger shot through him like lightning, white hot and instant. He tensed up where he lay, feeling Dean’s arm against his skin like a cattle prod. A common response in these situations for Cas would be to take the rental and bolt. But, Cas squashed that screaming demand.

They had a good thing going, and that’s all they said it’d remain: A Good Thing. He and Dean met each other in different towns across the country every few weeks. They’d spend a week together, fuck a lot, part ways, and go on living their lives. Wash, rinse, repeat.

Did Cas ever fantasize about a deeper meaning? Yes, of course, logic dictated that on a basic level. But logic and ration also spelled out why it couldn’t happen. There was no running away from their lives.

\---

They first met at Dean’s brother’s house in Boston during a very boring New Years Eve party.

The kid found stupid success at a young age and he and his wife bought a beautiful brick home in Newton, right on the reservoir by Boston College. The house allowed a large expanse of guests for parties, an advantage Sam ran with for New Years.

Cas’s family had connections to the law firm Sam worked with. Cas’s family sold antique weapons to various museums and universities, and sometimes legal assistance was called for. At least, that’s what they told Cas.

But the invitation came in the mail for Cas alone. He never met Sam, he didn’t care about the family business, and had long since distanced himself from said family. He didn’t want to go. He hated parties. However, the opportunity to do some research lured Cas to the all american home in the all american city.

The night had been too long, and too crowded too early on for Cas. He kept popping out to the backyard patio, lighting cigarette after cigarette. A habit he needed to quit, but wouldn’t happen that night. The booze eluded him, knowing if he started early on a night like tonight he would make an ass of himself.

Cas stood outside, trying to light his second to last cigarette with dread. He just bought the pack that afternoon. Glancing around, he saw the manicured backyards of the homes around Sam, and the odd slopes of the mcMansions he grew up to hate. Those homes looked amazing on the outside, but were devoid of any life on the inside. Cas grew up in a home like that in the Litchfield Hills and had no warm, happy memories.

Growing up, Cas figured his family amazing. They were the quintessential, American (tm) milk and honey of the town. They held the town Christmas party in their home, large thanksgivings, and even birthday were celebrated like it was the first one.

Only as Cas hit the older ages he saw it all for what it was: a mask. In truth, misery ran through the family, lashing at their happiness and love. They tried to hide it, but the town knew. The town knew everything. Cas’s brothers and sisters hated each other, his mother drank herself to death, and his father never showed his face.

Cas hoped with all he could muster that Sam and Eileen didn’t end up like that.

 

The lighter refused to cooperate. Cas slammed it on his palm in a desperate attempt of a revival. He smoked a lot tonight. He probably killed the damn thing.

A sharp whistle came to his left. Cas spun, and saw a man sitting alone in the dark, a cellphone lighting his face in an eerie blue glow. In the dark, Cas saw the man’s arm move, tossing something in his direction.

Cas fumbled but manage to catch the small BIC.

“A trade,” the man nodded, “Got an extra?”

The lone cigarette rolled in the box, Cas’s last salvation for the night before resorting to alcohol. The tobacco monkey screamed refusal but the man did offer a light, and was the first normal human interaction Cas experienced that night.

Cas lit his own as he moved over to the man, lighting his as well for him before pocketing the lighter.

“That’s my lighter,” the main pointed out.

“That’s my last cigarette.”

The man nodded and they smoked in silence. First impressions indicated he was just as happy to be at the party as Cas was. His eyes drooped low, indicating he did start early on the booze to cope with the environment.

Two men who would rather be anywhere but Boston.

Cas blew his smoke upwards, watching it float away, gentle and light into the night air only to dissipate into the cold air. The moon shone bright above them, but Boston’s light pollution blocked the stars. More than once, Cas found himself missing a true night sky as he spent more and more years in the city.

The man shifted next to him, picking up a whiskey glass on the ground next to him. Cas watched him lean forward, cigarette dangling between his lips, leaning forward with forearms on his upper thighs, gripping the glass tight.

“Are you alright?” Cas asked, just for the sake of conversation.

“Yeah. I just had too much to drink,” the man mumbled, a puff of smoke escaping his hidden face accompanied by a cough, “I hate these things.”

“The butts or the party?”

The man chuckled, and sighed deep before straightening up. He took another drag, Cas watching the blessed cigarette losing some length.

“Both I guess,” he stuck out his hand, “I’m Dean.”

“Cas. Pleasure to meet you.”

Dean’s face, illuminated by the full moon and backlit from the lights inside offered Cas a small smile before sucking down another puff of smoke.

“So, how do you know my brother?”

That took Cas by surprise. The man didn’t look much like Sam.

“I didn’t realize Sam had a brother. He never mentioned it.”

Dean shook his head and chuckled, sounding as cold and bitter as the air around them.

“Yeah, he’d probably like to keep it that way too. I think he only invites me to these things to try and get me an upstanding white collar gig.”

Cas nodded along, his smoke nearly done. He wondered if Dean would be speaking about such personal matters with a strangers without the aid of Mr. Jack Daniels. Cas’s sympathy fell with Sam’s point of view. Cas didn’t talk about his family, and didn’t want people knowing of his family. As far as he knew, Sam remained the only person at the party who knew Cas and his lineage. But Cas didn’t like his family. It was a mutual hatred that they lived with.

Dean, even though he tried to hide it, seemed upset by this treatment.

“So why are you here?”

“Obligation, I guess. I don’t see him much and Eileen’s expecting.”

Dean finished off the whiskey and set the glass down with a loud scrape. Cas wondered if the thick bottom cracked.

They fell into another silence, which neither seemed to mind. If all parties were like this, Cas would probably attend them more.

“What do you do?”

“Pardon me?”

Dean finished the cigarette and brushed it on the ground between them.

“What do you do? How does my brother know you?”

“He doesn’t know me personally. My family’s been involved with his firm for decades.”

“You from a trust fund family?”

Cas shook his head, “Not anymore — doing my own thing now. Trying to figure that out.”

The family old antique arms, ideally the legal routes, but never wrote off the illegal path either (hence the legal issues). The Litchfield home had been littered with guns dating back to the 1400s. Knives, swords, ancient weapons from far off places Cas only saw on vacation.

Unfortunately for them, a few years ago, their brother Baz got caught, arrested for extortion after he started his own business in selling illegal, automatic weapons. The idiot didn’t know how to cover his tracks.

Sam’s firm represented him, and they were able to save the family from too much trouble, but the damage had still been done.

But Dean didn’t need to know that.

 

Behind them, the countdown started. The laughter, cheering, and glasses clinking drifted through some windows, cracked open for fresh air. Dean slumped his shoulders and sighed again when he realized he had no more alcohol in his head.

Cas decided there he liked the guy on the most basic level. Dean had loose lips around strangers and an unhealthy addition to unhealthy habits, but Cas could relate. He may not know the ins and outs of Sam’s brother, but he felt, at least on a shallow level, they had more in common than not.

Inviting people into his life had always been a rare feature for Cas, but tonight, in the spirit of the new year, he’d make an exception.

“Let’s get out of here,” Cas said, surprising himself with his boldness, “You owe me a pack of cigarettes.”

Dean looked up, a small smile turning at the corners of his mouth. Behind them, the countdown ended, and they heard fireworks booms in the distance in downtown Boston. Inside the house, party guests cheered, buzzers and crackers whizzed and popped. Cas couldn’t connect with anyone tonight except the man sitting next to him.

“What do I owe you a whole pack? I only took one.” Dean’s smile grew, challenging.

“People who take the last one owes a pack. That’s the rule.”

Dean threw his head back and laughed at that. A wonderful noise to hear, and the first genuine laugh Cas heard all night.

“Alright, I can’t argue with that. Let’s go man.”

 

**THREE**

Dean shifted in his sleep, and his arm slipped from Cas. Thoughts whirled in Cas’s head for hours by that point, his body tight enough to snap.

The light strengthened enough just enough for Cas to see his reflection in the mirror mounted on the opposite wall. His face paled during the night, and his eyes full of terror started back at him. Last night the two of them joked about the mirror. Dean had gotten off on being able to watch them move together, hard and fast. The mood, only a few hours prior, had been incredible.

Anger threatened to rise in Cas again as Dean’s words came back to him as a dull drum beat. What sold him into their working relationship in the first place was _it’s only for a good time_. No commitment, no jealousy, no border to give weight to. The hook ups were to burn off the stresses of their jobs.

Cas needed to get away. Fast.

Within a breath, Cas slipped from the bed. He walked across the room as quiet as he could be on 200 year old floorboards.

“Leaving me already?” A small, sleep roughed voice floated to Cas from the bed. Turning, Cas saw Dean’s eyes were still closed, and breathing slow and deep. For a moment, Cas wondered if he imagined the voice out of guilt, but then Dean shifted and kicked his legs out, one eye opened in a sleepy glare.

“I’m not leaving you. It’s just too quiet. I can’t sleep so I’m taking a walk. I promise I won’t be gone long.” Cas tried a reassuring smile, sure it would fail. But Dean, sweet Dean, only smiled back before closing his eyes again and hugging Cas’s pillow to him.

“Don’t be gone too long, I’ll eat breakfast without you.” With that final proclamation, a small snore indicated Dean’s descent back into dreamland. Cas dressed, and left without another word.

Dean woke, and Cas hadn’t come back.

By now, the sun shone bright and true into the room through the gauze curtains. Dean couldn’t tell how much time had passed, but his stomach declared that breakfast time arrived. A glance at the clock read 9 a.m., and almost in an instant Dean craved blueberry pancakes from up the street.

He did remember in his semi-catatonic state, he threatened to eat breakfast without Cas, but the man probably needed a refuel after the calories burned last night and his walk that morning.

Dean found his cellphone on the otherwise of the room, tossed aside much like the luggage, and tapped out a quick message. A quick cup of coffee from the Keurig later, and the message still hadn’t been read. Dean frowned. He needed food bad.

But Cas didn’t answer the phone call either. Or the one after that, or the third time after that.

A stab of panic tore through Dean as he turned to the unused bed. The both suitcases were still parked there. Dean sighed with some relief.

It wouldn’t have been the first time Cas ran out on Dean. It happened twice before. Dean understood the man’s reluctance to anything new, since he shared the same habit. But, when they got together, there was that mutual understanding of how they both worked. Dean thought Cas would adjust, but instead he struggled _hard._

 ---

The first time Dean woke to an empty bed had been the second time they hooked up.

They met at a small rambling of cottages at Sequoia National Park. Moss covered the roof tiles and the wood inside had well worn foot paths from decades of use. Inside smelt like leaves and warmth, and as soon as they crossed the threshold it felt like time stopped.

But the exhilaration of the new surroundings fell fast when they faced each other. A valley of unexplored personal trails laid out between them. They didn’t know where to start. Their lack of experience with each other amplified the silence between them in the cottage. The unpacked, ate a small lunch, and avoided each other’s eyes.

Dean eventually suggested a hike. The space had become too tight, too claustrophobic with the sexual tension ballooning between them with nowhere to go. The urge to drink overwhelmed Dean, so he opted for fresh air instead.

 

The afternoon sun beat down on them as they wandered along the Tokopah Falls trail. Early summer flowers blended with the tall green grass that grew between the giants, and the faint buzzing of insects filled the warm air. Dean remembered walking this trail side by side with his brother and father while they same to the area for a job. Even with all the shit he put Dean and Sam through, John knew how to have good vacations.

Today though, however beautiful the scene may be around him, Dean couldn’t stop looking at the man to his right.

Cas opted for a white, cotton button down and a pair of jeans for the hike, the least dressed Dean’s ever seen him. The heat of the day caused his hair to break free, brushing against his forehead. They kept stopping every couple yards for Cas to stoop down and take a picture with a DSLR. It slowed the hike down but Dean didn’t mind. Every time Cas went down to rest on his heels, his shirt rode up just enough to keep the view interesting.

So much for fresh air cooling down the blood.

The California trip happened to nab Dean right in the middle of one of his ‘hunts’. For several months, he and his imaginary competition with his east coast counterpart had been going strong with the body count racking up. Dean wanted a big score to break the doldrums.

He’d been tracking a well known businessman from Manhattan who had a scheduled stop in Los Angeles. Dean had a stupid excitement building up over the prospect of killing the secret drug lord due to his New York roots. A double score in his mind. Scooping up one right under Liberty’s feet.

But the night Dean had solidified his plans, Cas had called to see if he could fly out and get together _or something_.

An immediate yes flew out of Dean’s mouth, catching him off guard. His mouth betrayed him, sacrificing a major job for a man he only met once and had a few sexting sessions with. But, on the other hand, his mouth might have been remembering the memory from that night in Boston.

Now Dean stood, watching Cas taking pictures of flowers, a dainty thing of a man of his stature to do. He found himself not caring all that much about the job. Liberty could take care of the job when the guy got back to New York. That thought scared Dean, sacrificing a job just for a hook up but he pushed the thought to the back of his mind. He was busy at the moment.

Cas bent forward to focus his camera at a purple wildflower. Without warning, he turned around and snapped a picture of Dean deep in thought.

The sound of the shutter brought Dean back to reality as he caught the tail end of the grin on the other man’s face.

“I usually don’t let people take pictures of me.”

“Usually,” Cas stood up, “Is this usually?” He snapped another picture.

“I guess not. Let me get a picture of you — you got me twice.” Dean held his hand out for the camera. Instead, Cas looked behind them at an older couple heading for them down the path. Cas met them, and handed them the camera, gesturing at Dean and himself. Dean felt a small spike of fear, stereotypes and his experiences growing up told him to not indicate to older people his sexuality. But the couple laughed and smiled, putting down their walking sticks and taking the camera. Dean wound up laughing to himself over the fact if he were ever caught on a hunt, this picture would sell for millions.

The couple moved on with well wishes, and Dean and Cas finished their hike with Dean feeling more hot under the collar than before. All thought had left his brain other than _fuck fuck fuck get him undressed and fuck your little brains out._ Judging by Cas’s side glances, and his stiff walk, Dean wasn’t the only one thinking those things.

But they paced themselves.

First, they ate. Nothing big: a breakfast-dinner with some eggs, toast, and sausage. The old box tv only picked up some local news channels so they kept it on that at a low volume. Small earthquake in Northridge, four car crash on the PCH, a storm front moving in from the coast expected to be there by the weekend. No mention of Dean’s conquests the week before, thank god. He didn’t know if he could keep a good poker face.

The food helped slow his mind down but when his table partner got up to put his dishes in the sink, Dean got another healthy view of the near future.

He felt the inklings of the strangeness of this hookup even then, way before Maine; before the lazy hotel room with the waves crashing on their doorsteps; long before he admitted the inklings to himself.

But in California, he ignored them, chalking it up to knowing already, on a brief level, that the other man had talent in bed. Now Dean gets the full experience instead of a drunken fumble in Boston.

With dinner finished, Dean suggested bathing. Metaphorically, they were hot, but literally they were sweaty, grimy with the day’s heat and pollen on their skin and clothes. Dean wanted to jump Cas’s bones but wanted to feel marginally cleaner than he did at that moment.

They knew bathing was still to remain a utilitarian task. No shower sex, that’s complicated, but the stall was big enough for two people to fit comfortably in, with one sitting down on a bench at the end. Probably for the old couples like they saw on the path earlier.

The water pressure wasn’t spectacular, but the hot water worked fine.

They set the task of cleaning themselves while the other one watched. A silent agreement that if they touched now, then they wouldn’t even make it to the bed. It was the pre-game, and Dean put on a show. He never thought of himself as a sexy guy who could rope in men and women alike whenever he wanted, but he knew he had some gifts. And judging by the heat in Cas’s eyes, whatever Dean had was working.

The steam relaxed them, arousal swirling around them and at long last, the day’s grit and grime washed to the drain below their feet. Every step Dean took to the bedroom, drying himself off, felt like fire laced his blood.

All the awkwardness from before vanished from the small cottage, and in its place, urgency and desperation as they made for the bed, memories of Boston coming back fast.

Cas slid back onto the bed onto his elbows as Dean got everything ready. He liked doing this part. He was a control freak when it came to prep, especially when he was going to be fucked. He wasn’t sure when they arrived at that conclusion but Cas made no effort to roll over and Dean was more than happy to take up a position over the man.

They moved together, frantic the first time. Dean did most of the work. He needed to work it out of him, to calm down. He gripped the headboard behind Cas, and rolled his hips until he found the perfect spot. He stayed there, and soft moans from both of them floated into the evening air around them. Hands almost went for Dean’s arousal, barely brushing against the chest below him but Dean stopped them.

“I want to do this.” Was all he could get out before another low groan overtook him. The hands instead went to grip him where his legs creased as they straddled the waist beneath them.

In a manner of minutes they both came, Dean untouched the whole time. Cas kept finding the sweet spot with Dean’s help which caused a near earth shattering orgasm. That was a first for Dean. They were covered lightly in sweat and skin flushed. Despite being out of breath, they knew very soon they’d be ready for round two but Dean relinquished his position and fell back into the bed. Next time he’ll lay down. The energy was spent for now.

Only when he fell back and saw the shadows on the ceiling did he realize, with some surprise, the light stayed on. In Boston, they never made it to turning the light on so the dark shapes fumbled about. Dean didn’t want the lights on anyways, he hardly had them on when fooling around with men. Sometimes he didn’t need the truth in his face when he was too busy getting off.

Now Dean realized why he had been so turned on, and was able to come without so much as a breath on him. He now was a fan of lights. He could see each line, each spot of desire on the man who was just under him a moment before. He look thoroughly satisfied.

Dean realized in that moment, they still knew nothing about each other. Cas said he worked at a bank in the city, Dean said he worked at a mechanic shop. They knew nothing about their love lives, what their favorite colors were, or even movies. But, Dean thought about it some more, and realized he didn’t need to know. They were there on strict business.

They smoked a cigarette each before round two, both commenting on how much they need to quit but not offering up any solutions to that proposition. The post-coital silence wasn’t laced with awkward tension like earlier in the day. They both understood they didn’t talk much after sex. Dean was grateful – he didn’t think his brain could work anyways.

He put out his cigarette and took in the sight of the man next to him once more, propping himself up on an elbow.

“Ready for round two?”

 

When Dean woke, Cas left. In his wake, a cold bed and no note.

The morning light danced in the room as the leaves on the trees swayed in the breeze outside. The bed still smelled like the both of them, but Cas’s side was ice cold as the air conditioner kicked on some time in the night.

For a moment, Dean wondered if Cas just went for coffee, or had ventured into the bathroom to take care of business. But as the minutes ticked by, and Dean watched the light on the floor move closer to him, he began to accept the situation at hand.

He’s been here before, but he was the one who usually left.

Dean didn’t appreciate the self-reflection, feeling the walls building themselves up again after the defeating blow to them the previous night. Thoughts swirled in his head, beating the drum of _this is what you get this is what you get this is what you get when you try more than once with a person this is what you get_. Shame bloomed into anger, which then morphed into greater humiliation.

He hadn’t had a hook up with a man with that much attention and care put into it. It wasn’t a romantic fling in Paris with roses on the bed, but it was better than a back alley hand job and a beer in hand.

Memories from last night came back to him, morphed as shadows of themselves as self-doubt accompanied them. They became volatile and rabid, threatening to rip apart and self-esteem he had left.

“Go to hell, Cas,” Dean mumbled as he rolled over, turning his back to the empty spot.

 

The only benefit Dean could grasp onto was by the time he finished packing his belongings, and headed back to L.A., he could actually do the job he planned.

Dean blared music for the hours long drive, downing out the small whispers of anxiety that hid in the back of his brain. He created a mantra to beat back the voice: It’s done, it was fun while it lasted.

_It’s done, it was fun while it lasted._

_It’s done, it was fun while it lasted._

The work saved him from a week long drinking binge that lingered around the corner. That night, Dean locked the doors and pulled the shades over this windows to block street level prying eyes as he laid out various floor plans on his kitchen table.

 

Rosco Morris, CEO of Merkoff Unlimited was also a serious drug lord hailing from the gritty city of Manhattan. He hid behind his name and money, paying police off as well as mobsters so he was never bothered. He looked like a stupid, simple man but as Dean researched his persona, his personal life, he realized the man was quite the firecracker.

Morris would be in his Hollywood Hills rental home for three days only while in town for some legal business meetings. The first night, the night Dean spent going over his plan, Morris held a birthday party for himself and a couple hundred of his closest friends.

Dean hoped that equaled a long, undisturbed sleep the next morning as he cased the place from the outside. When Dean called Morris’s secretary back in New York, pretending to be Mr. Big Shot Money Bags confirming a meeting, she mentioned nothing had been on his schedule for the second day. It was Dean’s only chance.

Casing the place was fine. The party guests all left by 11 a.m., and Roscoe spent the late morning passed out on his living room couch. Dean took note of his electrical work, the cameras, and the lights. A normal job.

But that night, as Dean geared up, he felt a pang of nerves for the first time in years. The dreaded what ifs started. They haunted him at the beginning of his solo jobs when his father when MIA but over time reduced down to dusty whispers he pushed aside.

Tonight however, they wouldn’t shut up.

Without another thought, Dean grabbed the beer off the table, and slid onto the floor. The science behind why he always felt better sitting on cool linoleum never made sense to him, but he knew better than to question it. He leaned his head back against the wall and tilted it away from the overhead light. His heart calmed down.

“You’re only nervous because you had a shit day. Pull yourself together, you woman.” Dean sighed, and down the rest of his beer in one swallow before rolling the bottle to the trash. Alone again, and it didn’t feel so good.

 

Morris did have security cameras, but none pointed in the direction they needed to pick Dean up as he lurked in the shadows.

One pointed to the front, electric gate at the edge of the driveway, and one pointed to the hill at his backyard. He had one on the side of the house facing dean that also pointed to the driveway, but none that pointed to the retaining wall at the back corner of the property.

A large stucco wall surrounded the property with pointed metal at the top to deter climbers. Dean could climb the stucco but didn’t want to prick his balls on sharp metal, so instead he headed for a dried-up tree at the back edge of the property. The knots on the sides gave Dean easy access to the first fork in the branches. There, he perched, and watched.

Morris had a large window wall that offered a clear picture into his living room. A weird sense of privacy for a man with a lot to hide. From Dean’s position, he could make out a profile of Morris sitting on a white, plush leather couch. He still had business slacks on a button-down shirt. Dean could see the alcohol stains from a distance. Morris leaned down over his glass coffee table, and moved his head from side to side. Satisfied with the amount of powder transferred, Morris leant back into the cushions of the couch, a serene smile on his face like a pig in pure shit.

Minutes ticked by in excruciating slow motion. Dean didn’t waver, didn’t breathe as he sat perched in his tree. The rapt attention he held on Morris blocked all other thought from his head. Nerves were gone, doubt and anxiety buried next to each other, RIP YOU SUCKERS. Dean needed Morris to leave the room before he descended from the tree. It had to be slow so Dean wouldn’t break an ankle from the jump.

After twenty minutes and a couple bottles of alcohol, Morris stood and stretched with a pleasant smile gracing his shit stained face. Shaking his limbs out from the stretch, Morris finally moved out of view of the window.

Dean moved too.

He descending on the branches, taking his time and testing his weight on each one below. The tree only extended down so far over the wall. The pointy metal bits almost touched the furthest branch down when Dean put himself on it. Before it hand a chance to snap Dean braced himself, and leapt from the tree. He landed with a small _thump_ on the soft ground, causing a nearby squirrel to scamper. Mask on, guns ready to go, Dean kept moving.

On the second floor, a light turned on overlooking the backyard. Dean couldn’t be seen from it, but he still took no chances and bolted for the wall. He peeked his head around the corner, and saw the window remained shut. If he stayed pressed against the rough stucco, he should be able to make it to the enclosed entryway just fine.

But as he turned the corner, a bright light blinded him, and for a moment, Dean thought an unchecked bodyguard discovered him. But the dull, mechanical buzzing came soon after, and Dean realized in horror that he stood in the path of a motion light.

The window above Dean’s head opened even more. A jolt of uncharacteristic panic jolted through Dean as he rushed along the edge of the wall to the enclosed back entryway, where the shadows hid him. He heard Morris grumble something before slamming the window shut entirely.

Dean had done a quick inspection already of the place but even knowing that, he still looked around for any hidden cameras pointing at his face. He still found none.

After three minutes of absolute stillness, the motion light turned off, plunging Dean back into darkness.

The backdoor had a stupidly simple lock for such a high profiled character. Dean knew a security system would sound, based on the stickers plastered on the door window. He already knew how to take care of that, but he needed to work fast.

The lock pick worked its magic, giving Dean the satisfying _click_ he needed. But before he opened the door, he had thirty seconds to disarm the lock before the system declared loud and proud that someone who shouldn’t be there, was.

Dean pulled small black box, no bigger than a matchbox, from this duffel. The tiny EMP worked wonders if placed in the right spot on the wall. A gift from his late father.

Thankfully, Morris was as predictable as Dean figured him, and placed the system on the small of the wall right next to the door. Dean latched the black box onto the stucco, pressed the right combination of buttons, and waited with bated breath.

The EMP vibrated under Dean’s grip, before relaxing, lacking its position against the wall. To Dean’s credit, he learned not to rely solely on the technology. It wouldn’t be the end of the world if the alarm went off, he could subdue Morris regardless, but the help helps sometimes. Plus, he wanted this hunt to go slower. He needed the distraction.

The EMP only bought him a minute of time so Dean opened the door fast, avoiding any creaks with the hinges, and slid into the darkened shadows of the mudroom. Door locked, system armed again: Dean was in.

 

Morris had headed upstairs to turn down for bed. Dean laughed at the fact a man of his caliber would go to bed at such a reasonable hour.

The house, a new build, had no squeaky floorboards but Dean kept to the sides just in case. Just like he couldn’t always trust the EMP, he couldn’t trust construction workers to put one hundred _pree_ -cent work effort into their work. Another bit of advice from good ol’ John Winchester.

Dean walked on every exhale, allowing the breath to push him forward without a sound. He strained his ears to listen to every sound, every breath coming out of the bathroom at the top of the stairs.

The lights in the living room threatened to give Dean away, but he stayed dutifully in the shadows of the open hallway. A small mirror with powdery remnants sat abandoned on the glass coffee table, and the couch held a few empty bottles of beer. A one-man party.

The toilet rain upstairs, and Morris coughed, and spit something somewhere before turning off the light. Another breath, and Dean made his way upstairs, keeping his feet to the edges of the stairs still.

Dean found Morris in an upstairs study, something that looked out of place in such a decadent bachelor mansion.

Morris went from light to light, shutting them off. Dean watched him from the doorway. It no longer mattered if Morris knew he was there: he was trapped. Dean felt like Death ready to collect. Maybe they should stop calling him Mr. L.A. and instead call him Mr. Reaper. Bring out yer dead, bring out yer dead! Mr. Reaper is here to ferry them over.

Dean cocked his gun. Morris spun around.

“You’ve been a bad boy, Roscoe.”

Morris grabbed the nearest thing, a paperweight, and held his high above his head like a crude interpretation of a baseball player. Dean rolled his eyes.

“What are you doing, man? I got the gun. In fact,” Dean pulled out another handgun, “I got two guns.”

Dean actually expected Morris to have a gun. How the hell the man managed to stay alive with his reputation for so long without a firearm on him was being comprehension but there he was, alone and afraid just how Dean wanted him.

Morris looked at the stupid piece of metal in his hand and put it back on the table, hands shaking like a cold Chihuahua. Dean walked into the room, guns trained on the slimeball.

“So, why don’t we talk about this. I’m sure you have a lot to tell me.”

“I have nothing to say to you.” Morris raised his chin up, as a mask of confidence Dean saw right through.

“How about you tell me about you and your little friends are up to. See, what I think is you know we’re closing in on your, but what I got to wonder is why you have no protection.”

Morris shook his head and mumbled something.

“I’m sorry, what was that?” Dean reached Morris’s side.

“I said I couldn’t afford any bodyguards. You’re right, I’m losing everything so why don’t you just kill me already.”

Dean realized that he probably wouldn’t be getting any information out of Morris, but he was the last link in a long chain of people Liberty already started to work on. If Dean could, in any way, usurp the man’s progress, he’d consider that a success.

Dean grabbed the back of Morris’s night shirt and slammed him into the desk, causing his back to bend at an odd angle.

“I said where are the drugs — who are your sources! You better give me everything!” Dean threatened.

Morris smiled, baring his teeth in an odd grimace.

“What are you gonna do? Kill me? I face that threat every day sonny boy.”

“No. I know how to get info out of guys like you. I don’t need this,” Dean waved the gun in front of Morris’s face, “I guess the question is how long can you take it.”

Without another word, Dean pistol whipped Morris in the back of the head, and let him collapse onto the floor. Dean placed the gun on the floor as he bent down, checking on Morris’s conscious state. Out like a light.

 

Dean heard the cock of the gun before he saw the shadow behind him.

At once, fear and panic billowed from his gut to his throat as he turned to see a person silhouetted against the hallway light, arms outstretched towards him with the glint of a small handgun dazzling his eye.

Pigs. The feeb. A bodyguard after all. It’s quittin’ time boys time for ol’ Dean-o to head to the slammer where he needed to learn how to trade in cigarettes and blowjobs.

In the small backlight behind the person, Dean saw the counters of a plastic mask. He started to raise his hands in surrender.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Dean said slowly, trying to stay calm.

The person stepped forward and now Dean could make out the almost artful curves of the Ronald Reagan mask, airbrushed to perfection with no marks or bloodstains on it.

Mr. Liberty came to Los Angeles.

“Nice try idiot, I’m the one with the gun.” Liberty countered, with a point well made.

His voice sounded strange, a voice masker hiding inside the actual mask. In all the video shown of him on the tube, sound never played.

Liberty moved over to Dean’s gun on the floor, and kicked it away before retreating back fast, away from tackling hands or the full weight of a body of a man trapped.

“Take of the mask.” Liberty demanded

No.

_No._

“I said take it off!” Liberty barked at Dean, his voice modifier straining under the volume. Dean’s worst fear was happening.

He never gave too much thought if he died. Death was fine, death was quick. Death happened naturally. But being made, being brought in by the tactical pigs and the feeb, the dreaded _feeb_ were the worst. It was failure he’d be forced to live with. Prison was torture for a lifetime.

Dean saw his future flash before his eyes as he moved to remove the mask, and it went as follows:

He’d be shot, killed, died in the house. They would piece together that it was _him_ who killed all those people in Los Angeles and robbed the big studio execs. Sam would lose his practice back in Boston because who in the hell would hare a defense attorney who had been related to a serial criminal. And Cas… Dean couldn’t think about that. Not now. But his prediction of the picture they took would come true.

The ties loosened and Dean pulled the plastic from his face, face to the floor. If he were to get shot in the head now, his last look would be at the come stained Persian rug beneath him. Better than looking down the barrel of the gun.

His mind kept racing nonsensical thoughts as he lowered the mask. He wondered, in a half assed attempt at self-preservation, if he could get the jump on Liberty before the man pulled the trigger. Dean’s instincts screamed at him to fight back, but the rational part of him knew he’d been beat. Take ya lumps kid. There was no matching someone who was ten steps ahead of you.

A _thunk_ and the mask fell to the floor with a sense of finality, and Dean sighed. His run had been good.

“Dean?”

The mechanical voice, confused, caused Dean to throw his head up. He stared at the shadowy figure in front of hi. The gun had been lowered to the side of his hip, and the free hand moved to the back of his head. In one smooth motion, the Presidential face fell away to reveal a familiar one.

Cas stood, towering over Dean, staring at him with pure shock and almost horror. Dean expected he had a mirroring expression on his own face.

Dean’s knees wouldn’t give off the floor. He couldn’t move, but he could look away, and he had to look away. All the air that he held in his lungs as he waited for death released itself in one harsh breath. A loud voice wondered if Dean had still been passed out on his bed after a drinking binge after all. There was no possible way this was happening.

“Is this real?” Dean wondered out loud. Cas moved in front of him and heard the gun drop to the desk in back of him.

“I think it is.”

The answer hit Dean in the face, and he fell back off his knees and onto his ass. The full weight of the world just lifted from his shoulders only to be replaced by something else entirely. The cottage in the forest seemed like years ago at this point. Cas felt like a stranger before him, but a stranger that understood everything.

Without a word, Cas slid onto the floor. He remained close to Dean, but still not touching, and Dean said a silent thanks for that. He didn’t think he could handle being touched right now.

“How.” The only word Dean could squeak out.

“I have that same question for you.”

Morris stirred behind them, and they both looked to see the man’s eyes fluttering open. Almost like a dream, they helped each other up off the floor.

The last sound Dean heard in the house was Cas’s bullet striking the semi-conscious man in the head.

They agreed to a meeting at Dean’s place.

Cas followed Dean through the city with his own SUV, which gave Dean some time to think.

The shock had worn off a bit, only to be replaced by mounting anger. Driving along the 101, the absolute acceptance that Cas was Mr. Liberty made it easier to move onto the questions he really wanted answered. But there were too many, and they meshed into each other, bouncing around like bubbles in a soda, eventually popping as they got to the surface.

The questions then turned into the dreaded _what ifs_ again. There was the high chance that Cas would just take off behind him, and bolt in the opposite way. Dean found he couldn’t blame him if that happened, but it would set in motion actions and plans he didn’t want to execute.

No one saw his face at a job and lived to tell the tale. Dean imagined Cas would be the same way.

The mere thought made Dean’s blood run cold.

But the SUV swung into the little driveway behind Dean’s own car about ten minutes after him. Cas killed the engine with a sense of the same finality Dean felt kneeling on the study floor. Dean wondered if Cas thought he too was a dead man walking.

Dean led Cas through the mudroom and up into the kitchen, flipping lights on as he went. The questions still tangled into a ball in his brain and he figured he’d just pick one up one at a time.

He turned. They stared at each other, worlds apart. There were two ways this would resolve itself.

“What now?” Cas asked, eyes watching Dean as careful as Dean watched him. His stance screamed fight or flight. In this space, they appreciated how dangerous the other one was.

Words scrambled over each other, clawing out of Dean’s throat but he kept them in his mouth. Accusations, insults, anything and everything hurtful, anything to throw the daggers. A knee-jerk angry reaction. Dean swallowed it.

Instead, he walked closer to Cas, moving before his brain could catch up with his actions. He had no plan. Cas took one step back, defensive posture. Dean held his hands up, proving the passive action.

“We have limited options here.”

Cas nodded, grimacing, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

 _You already did_ “I don’t want to hurt you either.”

From there, they wound up in Dean’s unkempt bed. He didn’t know how it happened, he didn’t care how it happened. He remembered uttering the only words he allowed to leave his mouth which were “Just fuck me” and then they went at it. It seemed easier then talking, and they had energy to burn off. Everything between the kitchen and the sheets were just a haze and Dean was happy to get lost in for right now.

The gentleness was gone from the cottage up north. They both put everything on the table with their movements. Dean, pliable the other day, powered his way through Cas’s own movements. Hands gripped, nails scratched, and they battled for pleasure because that’s all they could do. They went once, then collapsed in silence. Dean could feel the bruises forming on his thighs, the marks beginning to show themselves on his neck and collarbone. He relished in it. They stayed side by side but didn’t look, didn’t talk, hardly breathed.

One small movement by Cas, and they were at it again. This time, Dean’s crotchety old neighbor actually closed his window, something Dean would laugh about the other day. Now, he focused on himself. The punished each other but took away the harsh tones by pressing their mouths against the bruises, against the marks and the scratches. One time, Dean almost said something but Cas instead covered his mouth with his own. He let the words die once more. Now wasn’t the time.

Two strong, almost mythical men trying to show the other one they weren’t afraid, while masking their fear. Another small death came, killing another part of doubt and terror off Dean. Judging by Cas’s relaxed posture, the same happened with him. They fought with tongues, fingers, and limbs. They fought without words because they worked silently anyways, why was this any different.

This time, laying in bed with the window cracked open, the storm passed. Dean leaned over to his bedside table to pull out a cigarette, but thought better of it. He needed to quit.

Chancing a glance over as Cas, he saw the man had his eyes closed, hands laced under his head on the pillow. He looked damn serene. So Dean asked the first question on his mind.

“Was this the only reason you came to California?”

Cas opened his eyes and moved his head to look Dean straight in the eye. An honest, open look that Dean felt ashamed in seeing, and felt ashamed for asking the question.

“I could have come to California without telling you. I didn’t have to go to the park. I didn’t have to meet up with you,” Cas rolled over onto his side, the cool air hitting his skin and accentuating the toll his body took under Dean’s hands. Dean imagined he looked the same under the sheet. A cathartic fuck that left them both calm enough to talk.

Didn’t know how to respond to Cas, so he just closed his eyes. Question one: answered. Question two:

“Were you going to shoot me?”

A pause, then: “Yes. But only to wound. I had questions.”

A final question: “Can we still do this?”

Dean wasn’t sure what he meant by that question but he asked it anyways. Did he mean this as in their job? This as their hookups? This as living?

Whatever Dean meant, Cas said a definite “Yes.”

And that’s all Dean needed as he rolled back over on top of Cas to start round three.

 

**FOUR**

Dean made his way to the front of the room, opening the curtains all the way. A blue sky greeted him, light and promising. The tide had gone out at the beach, and quite a few people already started to make their way onto the revealed sand.

One person in particular caught Dean’s attention. The glowing white Bermuda shorts gave it away. They walked across the part of the beach that joined up with the river. Every couple moments, they’d stoop down and pick something up. After examining it, they’d either put it in a pocket, or toss it back down to the ground.

The sun shone on Cas, highlighting him among the others down on the shore. Dean remembered how warm his skin was the night before, and itched to touch him now to recreate the memory.

Dean’s own admission to himself from the night before welcomed him like an old friend instead of a shadowy monster, surprising him. It squashed the lingering anxiety of several minutes prior when Dean thought Cas vanished on him again. He didn’t know how to approach this new creature in his head but he let it hum away. It gave him a happy buzz. Something to cling to when he needed it.

Dean moved away from the window to get ready for the day.

 

**FIVE**

Cas didn’t know what to do.

He almost packed his shit and ran. It was a familiar course of action with him in life, and whenever a hard choice had to be made, the flight overtook the fight. For someone in his job, he had a surprising distaste for confrontation.

But he almost did it. He almost grabbed the suitcase that laid untouched on the bed, he almost grabbed the rentals keys on the dresser. He almost booked it to Portland where he could grab a commuter flight back to New York City and then hide in the concrete walls until Dean lost all interest.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he wandered down to the beach as the tide rolled out, and fog cleared. The sun greeted him with warmth and happiness, but Cas only felt cold and anger. He remembered once, before his mother died, she told him that anger was a secondary emotion. If Cas was angry, he was actually either frustrated, annoyed, or

Scared

But that sage advice didn’t stop another flare of anger as Cas let his thoughts wander. Anger at himself. Anger at Dean. Anger at everything and everyone.

Cas would be lying to himself if he categorically denied the fact he _had_ thoughts of taking the relationship that one step further. The difference between him and Dean, however, was that he _didn’t_ do that. He knew _not to_ and that’s _not how this worked_. The one time he thought the words would slip from his mouth, the flight response triggered. He fled his home, fled crime scenes, and fled the one person who threaten to uproot the life that Cas had built.

The sound of the waves worked slow to erode the anger like it did the rocks around him, and each flare of (fear) anger eventually rocked away to calm. Cas figured out other problems that manifested in his life, and this was no exception. But, Cas had to admit (and if he didn’t there was no moving forward from the fact), that maybe he did feel some degree about Dean as Dean felt about him.

 

**SIX**

They worked a job together in New York, their second time doing so. They preferred to keep their work and sex life separate but sometimes they overlapped, and now they knew they didn’t have to sacrifice one over the other.

Dean had been in New York for one day, planning on going to Boston to see his brother for the following week to help with the new baby. At the end of the week, Cas and Dean would They had a day to wander around the city, a surreal experience given Cas’s wanted level in the area.

That night, Chef Dean made them both a Mediterranean dinner in an almost too romantic like gesture. But he liked cooking, and he mentioned how he hated to cook alone, so Cas let him run rampant in the kitchen.

Eating turned into dirty dishes, which turned into dirty jokes, which then turned into dirty talk.

Dishes abandoned, they started their romp in Cas’s room. A good, uninterrupted, long, deep, and low fuck that Dean and Cas both needed after more time apart than usual.

Dean stretched his arms out in front of him, holding onto the metal bed frame, having the pillow under his face catch his muffled groans as Cas teased him instead of getting on with it.

“Get on with it,” Dean growled, angling his hips up, trying to catch Cas in a way to satisfy his craving.

Cas kept the laugh to himself. He enjoyed seeing Dean get to this state of desperation. He knew early on it’d be a challenge to get Dean out of his head, out of the cloud of thoughts that sometimes halted other aspects of his life. So, for Cas, it’s a job well done if he can lift the fog.

“You can’t rush art,” Cas said, reaching next to him for the lube and condom. Dean snorted into the pillow.

But Cas did eventually get on with it, giving Dean just enough to keep him quiet but not enough for him to lose the desperation quality that Cas loved. He gripped the crease of Dena’s hips where they met his thighs and adjusted the position, causing Dean to cry out, pushing back for more. Cas was unrelenting.

Juts as a smile broke over his face, a phone rang in his bedside cabinet. Dean buried his face in the pillow and made a sharp, harsh noise Cas was convinced was a scream.

He reached up, grabbed hold of the top of the bedframe as he leaned over next to Dean, opening the drawer full of burners. Dean, facing the other way, lifted a hand to try and stop him but Cas swatted him away.

A case broke.

Cas kept one hand on the headboard, hovering over Dean unmoving as he took the call from his tipster, a former cop who over the years became disillusioned with the career.

Dean, for his part, and impatience, started to fuck himself against Cas, trying to get a sweet release. He knew what was about to happen, so Cas let him finish instead of giving the man blue balls.

He had to keep his own noises to himself.

“Did I catch you at a bad time?” Clearly the guy could hear Dean.

“Yes, but this is important, what do you have?”

A place. A time. Names. Everything Cas had been waiting months for. His brain started to divide in two as the pleasure center of him woke up, with half an ear on Dean and another on his phone. The other half of his brain screamed in its own delight over the fact that Cas could now nab a pretty nasty mob boss he’d been ‘hunting’ for several months.

The joy quickly overtook him as he hung the phone up, tossed it on the bed, and finished the work that needed tending to.

 

Dean joined him. Post fuck lasted but a minute as Cas told him what he heard over the phone. An exercise in trust. The window of opportunity was tonight, and tonight only before the target hopped a plane back to Moscow for the summer.

They got to the corner store just fine, they got set up just fine, everything was going _just fine_ . Dean positioned himself up on the roof across the wide alleyway, gun aimed at the door. They positioned their masks on their faces before giving each other the thumbs up. They joked how the surveillance images will confuse the fuck out of the _dirty rotten feeb_. If they knew how to do their jobs, this wouldn’t be necessary.

Cas waited until Dean settled into his spot, signaling he was ready, steady, Freddy. Cas picked the lock to the back door, holding his breath.

The nerves had started in the car. A quiet filled the small space after their initial laughter about the masks. Cas still was getting used to having a partner on these things. A partner that the news often had in competing stories. But he trusted Dean enough to bring him along. If he was going to kill Cas he’d have done it already.

But, Cas never took people on these _excursions_. The risk grows when he had to look after someone other than himself. He became a man divided, and attention split. That’s when slip ups happen. He could die, they could die – or worse.

By the time they arrived at the store, Cas had serious second thoughts. He cursed himself for even _thinking_ this had been a good idea. They did two jobs before in California but they weren’t as dangerous as this one. Alexander Minskovich was a slippery eel that would bite at first chance.

Cas made a promise to himself to never again make life or death decisions while balls deep in another man.

To Dean’s credit, he wasn’t a rube. Not by the footage Cas saw before he met the man, not according to the jobs they worked together in California. Cas knew how the man worked. Dean was brutal, quick, and moved like he had been trained by Seal Team 6. Cas remembered a video from a prominent, and corrupted, lawyer’s house showing Dean taking on not only his target, but two of his armed friends who seemed double his size. The friends were shot in the leg, knocked out, while Dean executed the lawyer point blank. That one gave Cas shivers as Dean looked at the camera with his bunny mask on, eyes dead as the lawyer below him.

There was no doubt Dean knew what he was doing. But this was Cas’s job, and Cas’s responsibility.

But they went ahead with it.

The metal door into the back of the shop opened easy. Cas hoped that meant the group wasn’t alerted, and didn’t have guns trained on the door. Hopefully. _Hopefully_.

A careful push, the hinges creaked a small scream, loud enough for Cas to keep his ears perked in case someone in the front heard it.

The stockroom at the back of the store melted into the dark of the night, and Cas couldn’t see a thing. The quiet streets around them allowed Cas to hear the man in front of him before the fist could get near his face. Cas managed to side step the arm stretched out of the shadow and grabbed the forearm. One hand gripped the meaty flesh while the other hit upwards underneath the elbow. A sickening snap followed, and the man in the shadows howled in pain. Cas shoved him forward, deeper into the darkness. The sound of metal scraping against metal turned his attention to his right, just past the door. Another gun was pointed at his temple, locked and loaded.

Cas swung to the left before the trigger pulled, and collided with the first man he encountered. A strong pull and a shove, Cas managed to crash the two together with a shout. His eyes were finally adjusting to the darkness as he saw the body men fall to the floor in a cry of pain. A dull _thunk_ echoed in the room as the gun hit the floor. The man underneath in the pile threw the other man off, and he and Cas both lunged for the gun.

Cas didn’t know how the gun slipped through his fingers, or how the man ripped it from his grasp. The next thing Cas did understand was the deafening BANG of the handgun in front of his face. He braced for something. Wasn’t sure what. Blinding pain, maybe. Death probably. Was he dead? Did the man hit the skull? But Cas’s eyes opened and realized in horror that the gunshot managed to hit his chest, just to the left of his heart.

The man struggled to his feet, adjusted his grip on the gun with a sinister smile gracing his face as he aimed it once more at Cas.

“Round two,” he jeered. Cas closed his eyes again. In all the chaos, he didn’t hear the door open again. He didn’t hear when Dean subdued the other guy on the ground with a pistol whip much like he did with Morris all those months ago. Pain seared through his chest like someone pressed him with a white-hot poker. He felt the wet from his blood trickle down his side, pooling in his shirt.

He closed his eyes as a gunshot rang out once more.

Death never came.

He was very much still alive.

A large something fell, dead weight onto the ground next to him. Cas opened his eyes and saw Dean standing over him, face rigid like stone. Without a word, he began work on Cas’s wound. He pressed the fabric of his jacket onto Cas’s skin, causing Cas to cry out in pain as the fire seemed to burn through his veins.

As Dean worked on him, Cas distracted himself and looked to his left where the heavy something fell. The man who shot Cas laid next to him, eyes open and mouth agape in horror and shock, his last emotion before Dean blew his brains out. A pool of blood surrounded the man’s head.

Cas clenched his eyes again to burn the image out of his mind, bracing against more jolting pain as Dean worked fast. It didn’t help. The room spun around him, and Dean’s face grew darker, before fading entirely. Cas closed his eyes for the final time that night as darkness took over.

When Cas woke, he heard birds. 

Without opening his eyes, he could tell the sun had risen on another day of his life, somehow. The scent of sweet, sun-warmed spring trees filled the air around him, and a gentle breeze brushed against his face, coaxing him to open his eyes. He obliged. 

Laying on his back, he could only see a bit of the room around him. It had a snug, cottage feel with antique whip shiplap lining the wall to his right. It appeared like a converted sunroom with the wall behind him, on his left and he assumed at the far end of the room being a panoramic set of porch windows.

Cas looked out the window to his left. The bottom half of the wall cut off some of his vision, but he saw an umbrella sticking out of what he assumed was a deck table. He barely saw the top of the railing that enclosed said deck. Beyond that, trees that swayed in the breeze, kicking up more tweets from more birds. 

“It’s my uncle’s place. I got it when he died.” The voice in the room made Cas jump, causing a dull ache to radiate through his chest. He managed to lift his head just enough to see Dean sitting on an armchair, Slaughterhouse Five in hand, watching. 

“Seems nice,” Cas mumbled. Talking hurt. “Where are we?”

“Upstate New Hampshire. Didn’t want to bring you back to the apartment. Didn’t know if there’d be more of them.”

Cas tried sitting up. A mistake. The pain seeped into every muscle in his body, and he was, for a moment, convinced he’d been hit by a truck instead of a bullet. 

“Need some help?” 

Cas shook his head, “Help me by explaining how I’m not dead right now. I know I lost a lot of blood.”

Dean recounted the story, sounding like he told it a million times already. After the Incident, he managed to stop the blood flow enough to throw Cas into the SUV. Sirens were descending on them, and they needed to get out  _ fast. _ He drove without stopping until he hit Bridgeport. He hoped they could make it to New Hampshire without incident but Cas had lost so much blood, he almost glowed in the night with his pale skin. Dean  _ knew a guy _ and the  _ guy _ knew operation procedures. The  _ guy _ sedated Cas as much as he dared as they worked to pull the bullet out and stitch him up. 

“From there, smooth sailing p to Winnipesaukee,” Dean finished, turning back to his book, “Would be swell if you didn’t scare me like that again.”

Cas, giving up at his attempt to sit up, slumped back into the bed.

“Wasn’t my intention.”

Dean sniffed, and turned a page. Something was clearly off, but Cas had no energy to give it more than a single acknowledgement before he left exhaustion take him back down into the abyss. 

 

He woke again with hands on his back. He sat vertical in the bed but had no memory of how he got there. Breathing was difficult, but manageable. Cas turned his head and saw Dean sitting on the edge of the bed, a first aid kit balanced on the top of his thighs. On the ground next to the bed, dirty bandages caked in dried blood that told the history of Cas’s recovery. 

Dean’s hands worked fast and thorough, winding new bandages under Cas’s left arm and over his shoulder. He pulled tight for security, which caused a small jolt in pain but it was more bearable than earlier. 

With exceeding panic, his brain worked through the pain haze and realized just how much of a vulnerable state he was currently in. He trusted Dean more than others, but people didn’t take care of him like this. He never got injured like this. 

He never got injured at  _ all _ until Dean came into the picture. 

“Do you need anything? You haven’t eaten in a day,” Dean said from behind Cas, still working on securing the bandage. His voice cut through the panic rising in Cas’s brain. The words were quiet and gentle like Dean was talking to a wounded fawn. Cas couldn’t stand it. 

“No, I’m all set for now thanks. I think I want to sleep some more.”

“Alright. Just holler if you need anything. My room’s on the otherwise of the wall.” With that, Dean reemerged from behind Cas, satisfied with a job well done, and cleaned up his supplies. He helped Cas lean back into the bed, and left without another word. No  _ goodnight _ or  _ sleep tight _ . Cas didn’t think he could handle any more gentle words or touches. 

The lights switched off, and Dean went into his room. So Cas started to think. 

He went back to the thought how he never got injured on a job before. One time, he came close after his father died when his head wasn’t in the game. 

_ Was your head in the game last night? _

Cas didn’t know. He thinks it was. 

_ You were worrying about Dean and Dean’s safety until you got to the site. You didn’t plan ahead, you didn’t scope anything out. You ran head first into a job. That’s not how we do things on the East Coast. Maybe it’s how  _ he _ does things, but not you. You let him get to you _ . 

Cas shifted under the blanket. He couldn’t turn onto his side very well, but adjusting his head helped his comfort level a bit. 

The truth is hard to hide from. Dean  _ had _ occupied his thoughts from the moment he took the call to the moment he opened the store door. Cas, horrified, realized he couldn’t even  _ remember _ taking the call. 

There was the simple fact that Dean almost, inadvertently, gotten Cas killed. 

_ He also saved you.  _

_ True, but would I even have needed saving if he wasn’t there to begin with? I never slip up. I never make errors _ . 

A dangerous stroke of confidence but Cas’s record spoke for itself. Until tonight. And since it had all been caught on camera, the news would get it, the public would get it –

As the night wore on, Cas’s thoughts whispered to him in and out of sleep. He became increasingly angry with himself, going back to the distinct rule of: he doesn’t bring people to jobs. He thought of that rule as he and Dean drove to the store. Why didn’t he stop it?

Dean didn’t screw up. He didn’t trigger anything or tip anyone off, but Dean screwed  _ Cas _ up. 

The thoughts and whispers mixed together, and Cas felt the annoying rub of anxiety claw its way up from the dark depths of his mind. He took a deep breath  _ ow _ and settled back to how he worked these situations out. 

Not like this was a common situation. 

But still. 

First question he needed answering: Why did he care about Dean’s safety?

The natural inclination to care about someone happens and shouldn’t be too concerning, but to the point where Cas neglected is  _ own _ safety, when he was the one going into the (literal) line of fire alarmed him. Self-preservation wasn’t something he often thought about, but he relied on himself to take care of himself. 

And, going back to his conversation with himself in the car on the way to the job – Dean wasn’t new to this. He had no reason to be concerned about Dean being able to handle himself. Their body count was nearly the same. 

So why?

_ You know why. _

Cas swallowed hard and squeezed his eyes shut. 

_ No. No no no no no no. Get out of here. We’re not thinking about that.  _

Deep breath in. Sharp exhale out into the stillness of the night. As if Cas’s life wasn’t complicated enough, now his brain throws this into the mix. 

This wasn’t how he did things. In thirty-eight years of his god damn life this wasn’t how he did things. 

Deep breath in. 

Out. 

In. 

Out. 

_ Next time, maybe it won’t even be you who almost dies. Maybe it will be him. Do you think you can handle that. Do you think you can handle seeing him lifeless and bloodied like the guy he took out – _

Dean knows the risks 

_ this is a whole other monster buck-o and you know it.  _

he knows the risks

_ There’s only so much room in your brain. Love or logic. Pick your poison.  _

_ Love _ jumped Cas into motion, like being zapped by lightning. The air in the sun porch grew stagnant despite the cool, night time breeze drifting through the windows. The sudden desire to  _ get out get out get out get out get out  _ overwhelmed Cas to the point where he finally managed to propel himself out of the bed and onto solid ground. His chest screamed at him. He couldn’t tell if it was the movement or the heavy breathing. 

He needed to get  _ out. Away _ . 

Cas moved in a daze, grabbing his shoes and jacket. He opened the kitchen door to the outside, praying to God it didn’t squeak and give away his position. The door gave away enough space for Cas to slip through. 

He chanced a glance back, expecting Dean in the living room behind him with a sleeping, confused expression that would all but make Cas stay -

_ \-  _ but Dean stayed snoring in his room at the other end of the cottage. 

Cas grabbed the car keys, and left. 

  
**SEVEN**

Cas reached the edge of the shallow waves of low tide. He could keep walking out into the Atlantic another dozen or so yards and the water wouldn’t have gotten further thank his ankles, but he stayed in the warm sands.

Why did everything have to be so complicated?

It took a solid month to repair the damage Cas did to whatever it was he and Dean had after he ran out in New Hampshire. But in the end, Cas didn’t have to do much talking, just agreed with Dean’s assessment that bringing someone along and almost getting killed spooked him.

Cas considered again walking into the ocean. Go past his calves, thighs, stomach — just keep going until he was swimming with the fishes. That’s how the mobsters talked in the movies. _Swimming with the fishies, Ace_. Cas can go live with the whales, make a nice home out of coral —

“Working on your tan?”

Cas spun around and saw Dean standing behind him, still looking half asleep with his hair still stuck up in some places.

“How long was I gone for?” He patted his pockets looking for his phone. Instead, Dean held it up in front of him.

“A few hours at least.”

An uncomfortable silence fell between them, only broken by the sound of distant laughter from children and the waves breaking out in the distance. Cas hated it.

“You thought I left again.”

“Yeah.”

“And you panicked.”

“Yup.”

Cas sighed and turned from Dean, unable to meet him in the eye.

“So what did I do this time?” Dean asked. Cas winced at the hurt lacing his tone.

 _Everything!_ he wanted to scream. E _ver since I_ met _you! Everything!_

 _“_ Nothing.”

Dean scoffed, shoving his hands in his pocket, rolling his eyes to the sky, “It’s always something.”

Another wave floated in from where it crashed a few yards out. It glittered over the pebbles and shells, wiping clean their footprints. They watched it go, and another one arrive right after.

Cas realized with a sudden sadness that there was only so much more of this Dean could take before they parted for good.

 _Isn’t that what you wanted? It’d make life easier_.

It would. But it would also break them both, Cas knew that truth deep down. Leaving was his crutch. He did it with everything else in his life. His career was based on the mere action of _leaving_. Life’s easier to manage when you only had to take care of yourself. It had worked for Cas up until this very moment.

“It’s never something with you. You need to understand that.”

In no way, shape, or form, was Cas going to look back at Dean after that statement so he kept his eyes trained on the dazzling water. He could feel Dean’s eyes boring into his brain.

Fuck it.

“I heard you last night,” Cas confessed.

“Heard me what? We were both pretty loud. I think our neighbors actually tried -”

“You know what I’m talking about,” Cas lifted his gaze, and saw the man before him turn bright white under the sun. The impression that Cas hallucinated in a half-conscious brain lapse collapsed right there, “I heard what you said.”

Dean swallowed hard, but didn’t break eye contact. Another battle to be fought, and Cas didn’t know how to go from here. Lines were drawn in the sand but he couldn’t see in the dark. Running ahead into darkness nearly got him killed already, and it just might happen again.

“I meant it.”

There Dean stood, more vulnerable and naked in front of Cas than he ever was in the bedroom; than Cas ever was on that cottage bed; than they were that night they learned their true identities.

The crushing weight of guilt overwhelmed Cas, thinking of all the time Dean shown himself and Cas ran. He runs. That’s all he’s ever done. What did it ever get him? The only benefit he found by running fast was not getting caught by the cops.

And the words suddenly manifested themselves in his head, mirrored to Dean’s the night before. The ones he pushed down, away, off stage into the fire, into the ocean, into the abyss every time his mind strayed that way. The ones that came to him in the middle of the night even when Dean wasn’t there. The ones he couldn’t bear to hear his whole life. The ones he heard from disingenuous people.

They washed over him like the waves behind him.

The chain on Cas’s heart loosened more, but Fear, the flighty bitch, kept a strong grip on the lock.

“Please give me more time.” Cas managed different words to come out instead of the ones dying in his throat. They were there, but he wasn’t ready yet. He let the emotions of love overcome him body and soul but speaking it made it final. Finality was the death of his current life, of everything he’s ever known.

A strong wave crashed closer, sending the tide in a bit deeper, pushing Cas further back to shore. But Cas didn’t want to leave the wave yet.

Dean’s face remained stony. In that moment, he feared Dean would storm off, muttering _forget it_ under his breath. But, as soon as that fear entered Cas’s mind, Dean’s face softened in the sunlight.

Dean stole a glance to the crowd of people to his left, a paranoid behavior he couldn’t shake when he showed public displays of affection, and moved closer to Cas in the water.

They trusted each other. Cas trusted Dean’s love, and Dean trusted Cas’s faith in his. They just needed time. But, there will be time.  

**Author's Note:**

> 2018 submission for the DeanCas Mini Bang  
> Thank you for reading! I love these two idiots.  
> The art was done by Harplesscastiel on Tumblr!  
> This work was (sadly) mostly unbetad so if anyone comes across anything that needs a bit of a fix, please kindly let me know!  
> Inspired by the song: There Will Be Time by Mumford and Sons


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